


Concealing More Than Feelings

by DaringlyDomestic, thejohnhwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-13 08:54:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 5,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7970644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejohnhwatson/pseuds/thejohnhwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a RP fic that thejohnhwatson and I are doing on Tumblr. We got some requests to have a way to notify people when we updated so we threw it on AO3. Hope you enjoy!</p><p>Because the chapters are so short, it might be useful to click the "entire work" button at the top. Unless you like clicking "next chapter." Then, by all means, click away!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Odd numbered chapters are @thejohnhwatson's and even numbered chapters are @daringlydomestic's.

After three weeks of radio silence, after the Moriarty T.V. stunt, the only thing that had happened of any significance was a (presumably) unrelated break-in at 221 B.  Sherlock had dealt with a combative individual in the flat before, but this time he did not remain unscathed.  He had had his head slammed into the table, and acquired an unusual cut on his shoulder.  Now, a week after the incident, he couldn’t help but think that perhaps it wasn’t unrelated at all…and that something must have been transmitted to him during that fight.  He hardly ever got sick, and now…now he had never felt quite so weak.   He was going through papers, trying to figure out Moriarty’s next move, when the first wave of nausea hit him.  He rushed to the washroom, and when he emerged, John was coming through the front door.  He tried to act nonchalant, making sure he had all the sick wiped from his mouth.  

“John,” he said in greeting.  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”  

He gave him a small smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	2. Chapter 2

 John’s eyes flicked eagerly around the flat. He clearly missed Baker St., even if he wasn’t ready to admit it. His eyes locked on Sherlock’s and his shoulders drew taut, his back straight, as if daring Sherlock to question his presence. The rumpled pajamas and the disheveled nest of curls atop Sherlock’s head spoke of the man’s state of mind. He clearly hadn’t bathed in days.

“No cases, then?”

John took a step closer as Sherlock blinked and swayed a bit in place. He was puzzled by the detective’s lack of response. Sherlock never missed an opportunity to bait John. 

“Sherlock…”

John breathed deeply and shuffled closer.

“Is everything alright?”

John let his open palm gently cradle Sherlock’s elbow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock jerked away from John’s touch, which he’d never do under any other circumstances, but right now he was afraid the illness might be contagious, and he’d never want John to feel like this.  Perhaps it wasn’t contagious, but he wouldn’t risk it, risk John.  

“I’m perfectly fine,” Sherlock replied stiffly, backing away from John a bit.  His expression softened.  “Sorry it’s just…I’ve been doing experiments, and I wouldn’t want you to bring anything back to the baby.  How is she, by the way?”  He swallowed, suddenly feeling hot.  “You…may want to wash your hand,” he added in a murmur, as he felt beads of sweat forming at his forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	4. Chapter 4

John’s forehead pinched in confusion. He stepped back into Sherlock’s space but refrained from touching. He ran an appraising eye over the detective and began to worry. Sherlock was sweating and weak. Clearly, he hadn’t been eating or sleeping, maybe worse. 

“You think you’re ill?”

John may be slow, but even he could pick out the signs. After all, Sherlock had told him he might be contagious. John quickly moved in and pressed the sensitive skin of his wrist to Sherlock’s forehead. He looked at the man sternly.

“When did the fever start, Sherlock?”

His tone brooked no argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	5. Chapter 5

So much for blaming his distance on his experiments.  He jerked back once again.  “Right now, apparently,” he said in a gruff voice.  “Must’ve caught something.”

He didn’t tell John his suspicion that he’d received the illness from the wound inflicted from the break-in, nor that he’d been sick for a couple of days now.  Perhaps he could still blame his illness on experiments, that he’d gotten sick from what he’d been working with?  John had enough to worry about with the new baby and his (’dangerous’ his mind supplied) wife…he didn’t need to add ‘my best friend might be subject to biological warfare on behalf of Moriarty,’ to that list.  Either way, it was true that he hadn’t noticed that he’d had a fever.  He’d only started to feel warm just a moment ago.  

“I don’t want you to catch whatever it is that I have, John,” he said sternly.  “It might be serious.  I’ve been doing experiments with body parts from the morgue again recently…I’m not sure what I might have contracted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	6. Chapter 6

“You’re such a berk!”

John laughed at Sherlock’s offended expression.

“Is this your chosen method of sulking now? When you’re bored you’re just going to mope around and stew in your own juices until you make yourself sick? You know, that would have worked a lot better when there was still a doctor in residence.”

John’s tone was playful but his face crumpled as he registered the words and the meaning that Sherlock will be able to read behind them. He resented not living at 221B anymore. He resented the dust gathering in “his” chair. He resented the lingering scent of tobacco smoke that permeates the flat. Sherlock only smokes on danger nights. John had almost eliminated those entirely…before…

John looked around the kitchen. The table top hosted about twelve mismatched tea cups and what looked like the remains of a packet of digestives, but no body parts. In fact, the smell of formaldehyde was worryingly absent.   _Doing experiments, my ass._

John shook his head in exasperation and his face smoothed into gentle, fond concern.

“Go lay down. I’ll wash my hands and make us some tea, yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock swallowed at the comment, his face sad.  What he wouldn’t give to have John living here again, taking care of him if he ever got sick.  Now all that would happen if he got sick would be to get even sicker until he was forced to seek medical attention, probably on Mycroft’s orders.  Or perhaps John would have to take charge and stay for a while until he was better…he’d store that idea away for further thought.  But right now, with an unknown illness, it would be better if he limited John’s exposure to it…as much as he’d like John to come and stay indefinitely.  

Suddenly Sherlock was hit by another dizzy spell and he grasped the door frame to the hallway for support, fortunately while John was looking toward the living room and at the kitchen tables.  He quickly recovered his balance just in time for John to look back at him.  He nodded at the suggestion to go lay down.  “Alright,” he said quietly, moving slowly toward his bedroom as it was closer.  He hoped that John wouldn’t mind…to be completely honest, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to make it to the couch in this state.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	8. Chapter 8

John hummed softly as he washed up and filled the kettle. He rifled through the cabinets looking for tea, confused to find it shoved on the third shelf of a bottom cabinet between a half-eaten, molded packet of hobnobs and his old RAMC mug. He’d been looking for that for ages! Mrs. Hudson probably put it away and didn’t know where it went. 

Sighing, he took the tea out and was pleased to find it was a package of his favorite. Smiling at his luck, John took the boiling kettle off the hob and filled two cups. He added fresh lemon and honey to Sherlock’s, knowing the detective’s sweet tooth wouldn’t be able to resist. He slid an nearby book under his arm, grabbed both cups of tea, and pushed Sherlock’s door open with his hip. 

“Tea’s ready. I even put extra honey in yours, so let’s skip the fake fight where you pretend you’re not going to drink…Sherlock?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	9. Chapter 9

The fact that John’s mug had been hidden there was no accident–Sherlock couldn’t bear to think of that mug being anywhere but 221B.  It made him feel like John might come down from his room at any moment and make himself tea.  

It was also not a coincidence that Sherlock had John’s favorite tea on hand…he of course knew exactly what kind he preferred and always had some in case he came to the flat.  

Currently, however, Sherlock’s mind was not on tea.  In fact, it wasn’t really anywhere in the here and now.  He was dripping with sweat, the bed sheets and blankets strewn haphazardly at the bottom of the bed and floor.  His pajamas were soaked and his fever had risen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	10. Chapter 10

John hurried to set the tea aside. He flicked a clinical gaze over Sherlock’s writhing body. Clearly, the fever had worsened. John begins to make a mental list of supplies he will need to treat Sherlock here. As he bends over the bed to look into Sherlock’s face, he is infinitely grateful that he had stayed. 

His ~~flatmate~~ friend is clearly not well and needs taking care of. John swipes the curls off of Sherlock’s sweaty forehead and leans close, speaking in a low voice.

“Just need to get a few things. I’ll be right back.”

John heads back into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock’s door wide open. He hastily scribbles down a list and spends five minutes convincing Mrs. Hudson to run to the shops. She grimaces at the news of Sherlock’s illness but goes willing, reminding John that she’s not their housekeeper. John smiles his thanks. 

That done, John races back up the stairs and gathers a bottle of water, a damp rag, an extra set of sheets, and some clean pajamas before reentering Sherlock’s room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	11. Chapter 11

Although Sherlock had been going in and out of delirium, he was aware of John’s presence as soon as he came into the room.  “John,” he said softly, his voice a bit out of sorts.  “You’re like the sun…did you know?  I used to think you conducted light from me, like the moon. But it’s the other way ‘round.  You’re the sun, and I’m only the moon.  You’re essential to my very being…the sun.”  He smiled dreamily, then frowned.  “Is that why I’m so hot?  No, I was hot before you came in…” He looked around in confusion.  “John?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	12. Chapter 12

John bends to gather up the discarded bedsheets and blankets. He bundles them together for the laundry.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

Dropping the bedding by the door, John walks toward the bed and gently dabs the sweat from Sherlock’s face with the rag. The man is so delirious that he can’t even hold his own head up. John cradles it in one arm while wiping around his eyes, nose, lips…

Sherlock shivers and mumbles something indecipherable. John smiles and sets the rag aside. 

“You learned about the solar system.”

John teases Sherlock gently. When he doesn’t get a response, he glances worriedly down at the detective. He decides not to wait for Mrs. Hudson to return with the medicine John requested. 

“You’re temperature is too high. I’m going to run you a cold bath, see if we can’t get it down.”

Sherlock continues to writhe and sweat, but doesn’t respond. John hurries to the adjoining bathroom door. He stops on the threshold, grips the doorframe, and looks back.

“Oxygen. You’re my oxygen, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	13. Chapter 13

It’s hard to say where Sherlock’s mind is right now.  Things are blurry and time seems to go in spurts.  His body temperature is extremely hot but his mind is telling him that he’s cold instead, shivering and sweating at the same time.  He thinks he sees Moriarty and it scares him, as his head has a hole in the back (hadn’t he seen that somewhere before)?, and then he could swear that Redbeard’s chin is resting on the edge of his bed, looking at him sadly and whining.  He wants to comfort him, tell him that everything’s okay, but he cant.  He is unable to get the words out.  

Then he sees John, and of course that isn’t right, because John doesn’t live here anymore, and even if he did, he certainly wouldn’t be drawing a bath for him and calling him ‘love’…although it _is_ nice, regardless of the impossible-ness of it.

Nothing makes sense though, as he looks around what should be his room. And it’s terrifying, because what should be there isn’t and what is there shouldn’t be, and he feels as though he’s losing control of everything, which has always been one of his biggest fears…losing control.  His body writhes again in a half shiver, half shake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	14. Chapter 14

John lets the bath run, setting aside the change of pajamas to grab a clean, fluffy towel from the linen closet. Mrs. Hudson knocks softly on the sitting room door. John thanks her and takes the bags into the kitchen. He unpacks meticulously, checking that he has everything he needs. Mrs. Hudson clucks her tongue at the chaos of the flat, but she leaves John to take care of it.

The bath fills and John shuts off the tap. He tests the water and is pleased with the coolness. He tries to rouse Sherlock, but the detective's fever is too high. He is delirious and not aware of reality. John sighs and slips an arm around Sherlock's shoulder while he slips his other arm under his knees. He lifts the man much too easily. He sits Sherlock on the closed lid of the toilet and squats in front of him.

"Sherlock?" 

The man's glassy eyes skim his face and John thinks he is listening, as much as he can. 

"We need to get you in the bath, okay?" 

John pushes the curls off Sherlock's tacky forehead and tries to lead him to the tub. Sherlock giggles and mumbles something about bathtub pajamas. John smiles indulgently and carefully peels Sherlock's t-shirt from his sweaty body. The small round scar on his chest draws John's attention immediately. John's chest aches and he rests his hands soothingly on Sherlock's shoulders. He is surprised by the way Sherlock rips himself away from John's touch. It happens so fast that John barely registers the greenish hue and uneven texture of the skin beneath his fingers. 

"What’s wrong?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock is with it enough to recognize pain when he feels it.  “Hurts,” he manages, stumbling just slightly with his uneven footing.  “More’n the rest.”  He glances at his other shoulder, turning around as though that will help him see his back, and therefore putting it into plain view.  

His back and his sides are littered with scars, all from his time away, and always hidden from view with clothing.  Cigarette burns, whip lashes, knife cuts, all embedded permanently on his skin, and occasionally still causing twinges of pain when Sherlock moves in a certain way.  

He never went around the flat without a shirt anymore, even when he had his bathrobe on.  And he never wore just a sheet…those days have long gone.  

It’s yet another facet of his life that he’s kept hidden away, not wanting John to find out what he went through, not wanting him to be concerned or to see pity in his eyes.  People used to say his body wasn’t bad looking…now, he’s certain that anyone who saw him like this would be absolutely disgusted.  

But, since he isn’t in his right mind, he doesn’t realize that he’s revealed his entire back and all the scars to John, the very person he was trying hardest to hide it all from.  (Including the newest addition, the slash on his shoulder that he’d received by the robber (agent) that had come to the flat.)

“Don’ tell,” he slurred. “Don’tell John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	16. Chapter 16

John’s face grows sad and his voice is little more than a whisper.

“John would want to know.”

Sherlock is entertaining himself by twirling in circles trying to glimpse his own back. When he starts to wobble, John remembers he is supposed to be caring for him. He efficiently strips Sherlock’s bottoms but leaves his pants in place. He grips Sherlock’s hips to steady the man and brushes a hand down his long bony spine. His touch is barely a whisper, yet Sherlock flinches.

“I wish you had told me.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond. 

“These aren’t fresh. When did this happen? Was it when you were…away?”

John looks pleadingly at the detective who remains silent. John carefully spins Sherlock around to look into his face, but his attention is caught by the greenish-purple bruise surrounding an impressive-looking wound on his shoulder. The wound is not bandaged and weeping. Clearly, Sherlock hadn’t taken care of it properly. 

John sighs. He has so many questions. He wants to know the story behind every line. He wants to hold Sherlock and reassure him that it’s over. 

Except, judging by the new wound…it may not be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock has become exhausted by the efforts of the last few minutes.  He stares at this figure that is John and yet isn’t and he can’t tell what he’s saying…but it sounds sad.  He frowns.  “John,” he whispers fondly, the one word he’d never not know.  He hopes it’s comforting—John in any form should be happy, content.  

He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to gather himself, trying to grasp onto reality.  It only makes him feel more exhausted.  And he’s cold, so very cold, shivering and yet…and yet…he’s also too hot.  Nothing makes sense, and it’s only getting worse.  

“John,” he breathes, his voice barely a whisper.  It’s said as a plea this time.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	18. Chapter 18

The desperate plea snaps John back to reality. It only takes him a moment to remember what he is supposed to be doing. He helps Sherlock step gingerly into the tub. John grips Sherlock’s elbows tightly as the man’s knees threaten to buckle. He manages to get both of the detective’s feet planted firmly in the tub, but the is swaying precariously from side to side, and John worries that he will fall over. With a firm hold on Sherlock’s hips, he helps the man sit back in the warm, bubbling water. 

John rests what he hopes is a soothing hand on Sherlock’s cheek. He coaxes Sherlock back to wet the mop of unruly curls that have grown sweaty and tangled. He pushes the ends off of Sherlock’s forehead, shielding his eyes from the water. He flips open the cap of Sherlock’s ridiculously expensive shampoo. He is surprised at the wave of calm that washes over him at the scent. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed it. 

John rubs the shampoo into a lather and carefully works it through Sherlock’s hair. He rubs slow circles and lets his nails rasp gently over the man’s scalp. John grows more confident as Sherlock’s muscles relax. He tries to convey comfort and care through his touch, but his brain is still vibrating with thoughts of the violence that let his friend scarred so permanently. John breathes in deeply, letting the shampoo center him. He leans forward to rinse his hands and turns to help Sherlock lie back and rinse. 

He stops suddenly when he realizes Sherlock’s eyes are open and staring intently at him. Unable to decipher the look, John’s fingers curl around the edges of the tub so hard that his knuckles turn white with tension as he says the only thing he can think of. The thing that has been a fundamental part of his being for so long now that he can’t remember who he used to be before this hard, immutable, fuzzy, warm thing took up residence in his chest.  

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you, Sherlock. I’ve got you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock feels a wave of relief hit him almost as soon as his skin touches the water.  It feels…heavenly.  The water is cool against his too hot skin, although in his addled brain it’s the opposite–that he was freezing and only now is beginning to warm.  And then…the most gentle touch on his cheek, cutting through the haze.  

John.  

John is saving him, once again.  Whether it’s real or not hardly seems to matter…he’ll take it, this blessed relief that’s like a dream.  He closes his eyes as John leans him back and pours water over his hair.  And then John is lathering a lovely substance into it (shampoo, his brain supplies, which is very slowly coming back in line with reality) and Sherlock wonders if it’s possible to melt, because honestly, John’s hands in his hair is the most relaxing and comforting thing he’s ever experienced.  He lets out a sigh.  

They are gone again much too quickly.  He opens his eyes to see John leaning toward the water, rinsing his hands.  He really wouldn’t mind if those hands moved further in, he thinks to himself.  

‘Perhaps John wouldn’t mind either,’ his brain supplies, happily replaying the memory of John touching his knee and saying those exact words.  

He studies the man in front of him intently, and then suddenly John is looking right back.  His gaze passes through Sherlock like a jolt of electricity, leaving his skin tingling and a strange yet familiar feeling in his stomach.

 _“Don’t worry.  I’ve got you, Sherlock.  I’ve got you.”_  

‘Of course you have me,’ Sherlock thinks, but doesn’t say.  The words come into his head a bit slower than usual, the affects of the fever still slowing things down.  ‘You’ve had me since you shot a mad cab driver that had convinced me to take a tablet that almost certainly would have killed me if you hadn’t intervened.  You have me, John.  Surely you must know that by now.’

Instead he hears a soft voice that must be his own say, “I know, John.”

The fog is beginning to clear in his head, but Sherlock finds he doesn’t want it to lift entirely.  He doesn’t want that soft-yet fiery-look he thinks he sees in John’s eyes to go away, the gentle hands touching him as if he were the most precious thing in the world to turn back into those of a friend and medical professional and nothing more.  

Perhaps it was this desperation to hang on to this moment that caused him to try to talk.  Or maybe it was the vulnerability of his current state.  Regardless, he began to speak despite his weak voice.

“I want t’ have you too, though,” he says, his words still a bit sluggish.  “I thought I did, once.  But you…I had to leave.  You would’ve died if I hadn’.”  He closed his eyes, gathering his strength.  “And when I came back you weren’t…I couldn’t keep you…I…”  He lets out a stuttering breath.  “I thought it would go back t’ how it was.  But I…ruined it and I….I should’f known I can’t…I can’t….”

Not able to continue he slumped back, exhausted from the effort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	20. Chapter 20

John cups a hand around Sherlock’s neck and eases his soapy hair toward the water. He can see Sherlock’s strength flagging again. 

“Close your eyes. We’ll get your hair rinsed then you can go back to sleep.”

John keeps Sherlock above water while he brushes his fingers through the man’s curls, checking thoroughly that all the shampoo has been washed away. He tries to suppress a chuckle as Sherlock sits back up sending an errant droplet of water running down his face. It clings to his eyelashes, and Sherlock blinks repeatedly trying to dislodge it. 

John wipes it away with his thumb, and a stray eyelash lingers on John’s finger. John rolls the lash between his thumb and forefinger for a moment, savoring this piece of Sherlock that is so tiny that he can hold it in his hand. It’s so small that he could tuck it away, hide it, keep it safe. John wants to press it into one of his old books, the way his mother used to do with dried clippings from the garden. John remembers the scent of churned earth and gardenias. He remembers soft brown freckles and sun cream. John remembers his mother’s full rich laugh. He smiles at the memory.

When John was four, he’d grown sleepy under the heat of the sun while his mother pruned the garden. He’d rubbed his eyes and come away with an eyelash clinging to his hand. John had been terrified. He’d cried and shoved his hand toward his mother. He had been afraid that he was falling apart. He was afraid that soon he would just be a pile of once-human pieces that no one would be able to put back together ( _Humpty Dumpty may have been a strong influence. He had really never liked that book. He’d shuddered and made Mary put it back on the shelf when she’d suggested it for the nursery.)._

His mother had laughed, that memorable, contagious laugh and cuddled him close. She’d dried his eyes and held his tiny fist close to her mouth. She had told John about the wish-granting power of fallen eyelashes. He had closed his eyes and wished very hard before blowing hopefully at the eyelash on his hand. He’d watched it float through the air to mix with the soft, fragrant peat of the flower bed. _Maybe one day I’ll be part of a flower,_ he’d thought happily. He hadn’t gotten the dog he’d wished for, but he never forgot the superstition. 

The memory of that fear, the discordant feel of unwillingly casting off parts of himself is a familiar pain. He’s felt it happening, slowly and all at once. His life no longer his own. He feels like there are so many inharmonious parts of John Watson that they can’t possible make one whole human being. He wants the blogger, the flatmate, the best friend, but he also wants the husband, the father, the clinical physician - how is he ever supposed to make that all fit into one person? How does he make it all fit inside himself? 

John squeezes his eyes tight and wishes. He pleads with whatever force grants eyelash wishes to help him find a way to make John Watson whole again. As he opens his eyes and blows away the lash, he catches sight of a drowsy detective resting his head against the back of the tub and scrunching his nose adorably as he fights a yawn. A sudden swooping sensation settles in John’s gut. He pulls the plug and the water starts to drain out of the tub so loudly that it rouses Sherlock from his daze. 

“Come on you. Up you get. Time for bed.”

John’s heart arches at the simple trust Sherlock gives him. The detective stretches two skinny, pale arms toward him and lets John lever him up and out of the tub, trusting that John won’t let him fall. John squeezes his hands reassuringly and guides him onto the clean, dry bathmat. 

John works quickly and efficiently, getting Sherlock dried, changed and ready for sleep. He leaves the man sitting on the toilet for a moment while he swaps the dirty, sweat-soaked sheets for the clean ones he’s pulled from the linen closet. When the sheets are changed and the pillows are fluffed, John helps Sherlock stagger into his bedroom. The man is asleep almost the moment his head touches his pillow. John tugs the comforter up over Sherlock and watches the man’s chest rise and fall with a little more ease.  

He can’t say what makes him do it, but John sits on the edge of Sherlock’s bed and draws a deep breath. Apparently, there are things he needs to say, if only to Sherlock’s sleeping form. 

“You never lost me, Sherlock. But I lost you so many times. I’ve tried to pinpoint the exact moment it became inevitable - losing you - but I never can. I think it was long before you left, though. Maybe it was The Woman, but somehow I don’t think so. All I know is that when you left, you took pieces of me with you. That sounds horrible and cliche but there it is. It’s the truth. When you were gone, there were pieces of me missing, pieces I never thought I would get back. Then all of a sudden there you were, back in London, back to life, and all I could feel were the jagged empty places inside of me. I was so angry because the pain was supposed to go away. You were alive! I wasn’t supposed to feel like this. But I did. You carry pieces of me wherever you go.”

John’s heartfelt pronouncement is acknowledged by a chest-rattling snore. He chuckles and pats his best friend’s leg before heading for the kitchen.

“Sleep well, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock is roused by a phone ringing about an hour later.  He frowns at the intrusiveness of the sound…he’d been having quite a pleasant dream about being bathed and taken care of by John, and now….

All he is aware of is how much everything aches, and the pounding of his head against the ringing of a phone…

John’s phone.  

John’s really here.

Sherlock moves his head minutely, and is hit by two things: One, his head feels as though a nail has been pounded into it, and two, his hair is damp and smells clean. Strange…he certainly couldn’t have gotten a shower in his current state…which means…

Sherlock’s eyes open wide and he bolts upright, despite the blinding pain this causes, and the sudden rush to his head that causes him to grasp the bed for support.

It wasn’t a dream.  And that also means that John saw his back, saw everything…knows everything….

But where is he now?  Fear grips his gut.   Irrational, John is still here, he wouldn’t have left without his phone…

He gives a cursory glance toward the lit-up device, sitting on his bedside table, even though he knows who must be calling.  

Incoming Call: Mary 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	22. Chapter 22

John steps quietly back into the room, trying to make as little noise as possible. Sherlock was not a particularly heavy sleeper, and John was loathe to wake him.

John was startled to see that Sherlock was sitting up in bed, looking wide awake. _He really should try to get some more rest._ John held up the steaming mug in his hand.

"I made tea."

 Sherlock's snort of derision settles a warm glow in John's chest, and he finds himself chuckling. He sets the mug on the bedside table and looks Sherlock over. John takes his pulse, checks his temperature, and performs an overall general assessment before placing his hand in Sherlock's and looking up at him with impossibly blue eyes. 

"How are you feeling? Anything new I should be worried about?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	23. Chapter 23

A sudden lump in his throat makes Sherlock look down, swallow hard, then look back up at John.  The look in his eyes…he’d seen it before, and he’d always had to resist the strange gravitational pull it seemed to have on him.  He knew it was impossible, that gravity didn’t work in such ways, and yet…the effect was still the same.

“You saw,” he stated in a quiet voice.  “You weren’t supposed to.  I…I didn’t want you to.”  He pulls his legs up to his chest, letting his throbbing head rest on his knees.  “And, if I’m quite correct, your wife is calling you.”  

He looked over at the phone and back at John.  The cruelty of the whole scenario hit him once again…he got to have the illusion of his old life with John and the hopes that came with it, but only temporarily, only because of this…this illness.  “I’m sure she’s been wondering where you’ve been.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	24. Chapter 24

John followed Sherlock’s gaze to his phone, noticing the alerts verifying Mary’s calls. How had they come to this place? How did Sherlock still not know that he would always be John’s priority? He had been from day one and sod the consequences. 

“I let her know you aren’t well. She’s probably just calling to check in. I’ll call her back later.”

John smiles, hoping to reassure Sherlock as he steels himself for the inevitable conversation.

“I’m sorry that I saw things you didn’t want me to see, Sherlock. It was unintentional.”

John looks beseechingly at his best friend, praying that Sherlock will understand.

“But i’m not sorry that I helped you. I’m not sorry that I was here to make sure you were okay. And I sure as hell am not sorry that you let me. That shows trust, and honestly, after everything we’ve been through, that means a lot. The fact that you still trust me to be here and help when you need it means more to me than you know. So, if you want to talk about it - about them - I’ll be here. Otherwise, I did notice that you really haven’t answered my question, so let’s try this again. How are you feeling? Anything new I should be worried about?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell us what you think in the comments. Or come scream with us on Tumblr: @daringlydomestic and @thejohnhwatson! Or both. Both is good.


	25. Update

Thank you so much to everyone who has read this and supported us. However, for personal reasons, we have decided to take a hiatus from this work. We apologize to anyone who was looking forward to the continuation, but we do plan to return to it when possible. Thank you for your understanding, and we hope to be back soon. @thejohnhwatson will also be taking a hiatus from Tumblr, but feel free to come and chat with me @daringlydomestic. Lots of love to all of you. Stay Happy. Stay Safe.


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